The Pink Toothbrush
by Zayz
Summary: Huddy. "He can see it from his spot in the bed when the door is ajar, revealing the slice of his bathroom containing his sink. The pink toothbrush – pink like strawberry-flavored cough medicine or cotton candy..." House ponders Cuddy's toothbrush. R&R?


A/N: Well, I must say this before I say anything else – this story is a significant milestone for me. Why? Because this is _**story number 100 **_in the land of Zay! And you, lucky reader, get to participate in this momentous event by reading and reviewing! Yay you!

I deliberately chose something sweet rather than something angsty so that number 100 is a nice one to remember. Takes place probably a week or two after the S6 finale.

So…I hope you like this. Cheers.

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**The Pink Toothbrush  
By: Zayz**

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He can see it from his spot in the bed when the door is ajar, revealing the slice of his bathroom containing his sink.

The pink toothbrush – pink like strawberry-flavored cough medicine or cotton candy. A little artificial, a little unreal, but pink nonetheless. Pink, against the white sink, the pale blue cup in which it sits. Pink, facing his own white-and-navy-blue toothbrush, the handles crossed, the bristles almost brushing against each other but not quite.

The image is a bit jarring somehow. There are other foreign toiletries scattered around the bathroom – a bottle of perfume next to his aftershave, her deodorant and her favorite shampoo on his ledge – but somehow it's the toothbrushes in the cup together that strikes him most.

Maybe it's the color, which is generally unwelcome in his life. Maybe it's the infectious bacteria likely swapping from one brush to the other, even as he lies here considering it. Or maybe it's the fact that _his _toothbrush that is in _his _mouth everyday is mingling with _hers_.

It's a serious matter. Her toothbrush here and his toothbrush there is just more proof that this is for real.

His gaze shifts to his left and there she is, right beside him, peaceful in sleep. His arm is around her shoulder, his hands on her bare back, pulling her in; her legs are tangled up in his like yarn intertwined; her head is on the junction where his shoulder and arm meet, her hair soft and curly.

She is so physically present that it almost scares him. She is _there_ – her, and her warmth, and her heat, and her weight, taking up time and space, her particular flesh and the sound of her breath and the feel of her chest rising and falling, rising and falling, against his side.

She is as real as he is and she's still here. She wants to be here. She is sleeping in his bed, in his sheets, right beside him, and he can't get over it.

He can't get over any of it. How she smiles wryly when he makes a crude remark about her body; how she smacks him playfully when he's over-stepped a particular social boundary; how she laughs with a loose easiness he never guessed he would ever evoke in her. How she is possessive of him and wants to be this close whenever it's appropriate; how she is sometimes annoyed with him and can see right through him.

How when she wakes up slowly, gradually, like she does now, her eyelids cracking open, still sticky from sleep, his face blossoms within her view and she is quite possibly the most fascinating thing he has ever seen even though he has known her for more than half his life. In spite of himself, he smiles, and her smile – however tired – mirrors his.

"Hey," she mumbles, yawning on his shirt sleeve.

"Hey," he says, his fingers idly playing with one of her curls.

She exhales slowly, smile fading with drowsiness, her eyes closed again, but she is still right up against him, unwilling to move from where it's warm.

It's thrilling, seeing her react like that to him when she just woke up, when it's the hardest to lie. It's thrilling to him that they are a "thing," an "item" – a couple. They have spent this last week in a strange daze, trying to adjust to life on the same side rather than constantly sparring, some strange mix of loving and nervous; but this, this is when the reality of it sinks in the most.

She is here and they are real. He can still see her toothbrush sitting in his cup on the bathroom sink. Something sweet floods his stomach and his gastric juices don't seem willing to flush it out.

And even though his clock tells him it's about one in the morning, and she has already gone back to sleep, her soft snores reverberating through his chest like a bell tolling, he continues to lie awake, staring at the ceiling, utterly baffled and happily so.

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A/N: I do believe this is one of the shortest House one-shots I have ever written…but I'm strangely fond of it. I've always wanted to write a story with a fairly random and weird symbol you wouldn't expect and yet it works anyway. So I chose to take action with this cute little ramble featuring a toothbrush.

Two more days until Season 7, guys! I'm so excited!

Please remember to review on your way out, yeah?


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